


reinforcement

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, M/M, Nipple Play, Spreader Bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's... quiet. A strange form of blissful silence from both inside and outside of the battlefield that is his mind. Justice is soft somehow, soft and far away though undeniably trying to reach Anders. But now is not the time.





	reinforcement

**Author's Note:**

> first work! wahey. i hope it's alright. shoutout to all the lads at the dragon gay discord server for prompting me to write this. ;3

It's... quiet. A strange form of blissful silence from both inside and outside of the battlefield that is his mind. Justice is _soft_ somehow, soft and far away though undeniably trying to reach Anders. But now is not the time. He has never been strong enough to almost block Justice out, to not hear their rage every time he shuts his eyes for a second; he knows who to thank for this new silence.

Anders lets his arms go limp, pliable and malleable, as Hawke’s firm hands take one by the elbow and wrist, maneuvering it to stay at the small of Anders’ back. He does the same with the other, and pats his wrist where his arms cross.

“Keep them there, love. You’re looking so pretty already.” Hawke praises, and Anders trembles at the words. A soft, but real, tremble of his body. How does he handle this?

 

A second later, and he can feel the whisper of a ribbon around his wrists, Hawke looping the material over and over (soft side against his skin, Anders notices), gently pulling it taut.

“How’s that for tightness?” he questions, angling his head upwards to place a kiss to Anders’ cheek, just below the blindfold.

“It’s wonderful.” Anders hopes his voice doesn’t show just how giddy he is. He’s very giddy. He can feel the ribbon loop up his arms, criss crossing between each arm and winding around his skin until Hawke ties it in something - hopefully a bow. Testing the binds, Anders pulls against them, and a spark of electricity like no magic he’s ever felt runs deep in his stomach. They hold. His next exhale is shaky, but it is one of relief. Hawke has tied him up-  _ is _ tying him up, and he feels safe.

 

Next, Hawke moves away momentarily (and a strange panic rises like waiting bile in his throat  _ don’t leave me _ )- and he’s back, rough hands running reverent down Anders’ imperfect and thin legs, every touch a loving prayer. As a prince might fit his lover with a shoe, he slides on something fluffy over his foot and up his ankle. The same sensation on the other leg. And then- he’s attaching something to it, hooking it on each garment. Anders attempts to spread and then close his legs, trying to discern what it is. It gives him little leeway to do either.

“A spreader bar, if that’s good for you.” Hawke explains, kissing Anders’ knee. The contrast of his affectionate lips, and the scrape of his beard - comforting, familiar.

“I love it.” Anders says softly (like I love you, he almost adds), trying to move his legs again. Hawke put these restraints in place, which makes them set Anders free.

Another short moment when Hawke leans away from him, but he’s back as soon as he can, saying, “one last thing,” and then his thumbs brush against the corner of Anders’ lips. He almost darts out his tongue to lick one.

“Would you like a gag, Anders? We can use a physical safeword.” Hawke asks. Everything about his voice down to the intonation is gentle and undemanding and it makes Anders want to sob. 

“ _ Please _ .” he replies, and once the round gag is placed in his mouth, this surge of emotion hits him. He feels owned. Through and through, from the mask over his eyes to the closeness of Hawke.

 

“Shake your head if you want to safeword,” Hawke tells him, and his voice is serious, though he strokes Anders’ cheek with all the tenderness in this sick world. “Nod if you understand, love?”

Anders nods. Hawke kisses his nose, making Anders scrunch it up in response, wanting to smile. 

So Hawke steps back, admiring his handiwork, Anders all tied up and displayed, sitting on the end of the bed. Willing and open for him.

“ _ Fuck _ , do you know how gorgeous you are, Anders?” his words are a soft hiss between his teeth, genuinely overtaken by the sight before him. Anders subconsciously leans forward, moaning quietly behind the red gag.

“Take a second to.. listen to me. Let the world just slip away. Stop thinking about how things feel or taste or smell. Just- focus on my voice.”

 

And the stupidly wonderful thing is, Anders is utterly  _ hooked _ . With those few sentences, he is drowned in pretty ignorance, knowing nothing but the words of Hawke. It is dark, and perhaps the room outside is dark too.

“You are beautiful. Just beautiful. I’m the only person who gets to see you so sweet and submissive, and it makes me so happy you’re letting me do it. Does it make you happy too, Anders?” Hawke’s voice is music. Is perfection. Is the antidote to all Anders’ aches, better than any healing magic or salve. He nods, perhaps too vehemently. Soft pats against the ground tell Anders that his love is getting closer, and indeed, Hawke cups his jaw.

“I’m going to take care of you tonight. Your body is all mine, and my body is all yours. That’s all you need to know. If you can do that, you’ll make me so proud.  _ So proud _ .” 

Oh, he wants to make Hawke proud.

“Yo’hrs.” Anders mumbles around the gag. He tastes it in his tongue, feels it in his heart. Yours, mine, yours, mine. 

 

Hawke’s hands start at his shoulders then, grip too firm to be a caress, too gentle to be a massage. Every time he looks at Anders’ bare shoulders, he counts the freckles. Pressing the tip of his finger against each one, each number a soft hum as he speaks them. It’s the same number on each shoulder, he remembers. And every time Hawke does it, it helps to take him under. Under rational thoughts - down into the comfort of being played like an instrument by Hawke. 

Then he leans forward, hands sliding down to his arms above where the ribbon decorates them, and he kisses the space between Anders’ chest. Trailing kisses to the left, and Anders tenses up, toes curling. Please, he thinks.

And Hawke’s tongue slides over his left nipple. Anders tips his head back, an embarrassingly whiny moan muffled by the gag, trying to push his chest out. Hawke is generous, and his tongue flicks over the pert flesh again. Anders’ cock twitches, the flash of white-hot pleasure at his nipple beautifully unbearable. Hands now at his hips, keeping him stable and steady, Hawke latches his mouth onto his nipple, sucking softly and laving it with his tongue. Anders is weak, so hopelessly weak and his hips try to jerk, breathy heavy and shaking. The Champion’s free hand plays with his second nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a heaven of intensity, Anders’ cock leaking precome as saliva leaks from his gag. He tries to stay still, but Hawke’s mouth isn’t still, so neither is he. 

 

Soon, Hawke pulls away, his breath long and warm against slick skin.

“How are you, my love? Nod if you’re doing okay, shake your head if you aren’t.” Hawke tells him, and how he explains everything again makes it so easy. Because Anders doesn’t have to think. He can be dumb and have slow thoughts. Further, he relaxes. And remembers to nod.

“Thank you. You’re taking it all so well.” Hawke pats his hips, and Anders wiggles appreciatively. His mouth works more wonders; gentle ones, kisses dotted down Anders’ stomach, over his navel. 

“Would you like to be touched, Anders?” Hawke asks him, the side of his head resting against Anders’ inner leg. The scratch of his beard, the tickle of his hair. Familiar. Comforting.

Anders tries to plead for it, but the gag easily renders him inarticulate. He whines instead, sweetly.

 

Hawke’s hands slide up his inner thighs like chiffon against silk, so smoothly that it must have meant to fit together. His mouth is so close to Anders’ cock that he can feel how warm his breath is, so tempting against the untouched skin.

And- oh,  _ fuck _ \- he wraps his fist around the shaft, fingers curling around it, gentle like he wants to  _ guide _ Anders into pleasures, firm like he owns his cock. Which he does. Oh,  _ fuck _ , Hawke owns his cock. 

One stroke up his reddened cock, hand twisting oh-so-well, and a shivering moan comes from Anders. He pulls on his restraints, the ribbon pressing into his skin, feeling and thinking nothing but  _ Hawke _ . 

 

The man comes even closer (his body his breath his  _ hand _ ), straddling Anders’ right leg, his strong thighs bracketing Anders’ own. He can’t tell exactly, but Hawke seems to have lost a layer of clothing. Hawke rolls his hips down, only the smallest of stimulation for his clothed cock. 

His hand slides down Anders’ cock again, pulling the foreskin down as he does, and the pleasure blooms outwards.

“H.. nn, m’h…” Anders’ voice feels as if it is not his own, spilling from his stuffed mouth. He half wishes he could say Hawke’s name, shout it if he may, with every languid stroke of his fisted hand. The other half loves having the gag in, restrained and senses dulled, all except for touch.

“There’s a good boy,” Hawke sooths, kissing Anders’ hair above his ear, thumb sliding over the tip of Anders’ leaking prick, spreading the precum,  “just let your noises out. I want all of them.”

His hand speeds up then, even if just for a second, the noises of skin against skin louder and wetter with every passing second. Anders tries to cant his hips upwards, chasing the sweet grip of Hawke’s hand, his breath loud and ragged. It’s so good. It’s so good.

“Look at you, so needy already. So…  _ come apart. _ You’re begging for pleasure. I can tell.” Hawke’s voice is husky, as deep as it’s ever gone. Every syllable is crystal clear, the sharpest in Anders’ surroundings as everything else is pitch-black. His voice feels just as good as his hand between his legs. 

Lips- and then  _ teeth _ \- play at the shell of his ear, kissing and nipping and licking the sting away. Anders is vulnerable, being played like a marionette by Hawke, and he fucking loves it. Every small ministration is magnified by the fact he can’t move or see or speak. It’s a mindspace far, far below his waking thoughts. He barely thinks of anything other than the carnal desire or the insatiable longing for Hawke, Hawke, Hawke. 

The pace of his hand is increasing, every movement up and down bringing Anders closer to what he wants - nothing.

The relaxation of nothing. 

 

He drops down ever further, into new levels of serenity, when- the hand on his cock withdraws. Involuntarily, he bucks his hips forward, a mourning whine making its way past Anders’ gag. Hawke shushes him gently, standing up and stroking his thigh.

“I won’t be one second, love. Wait for me.” the man placates him, voice accentuated by the rustling of clothes. It’s so much easier to do  _ anything _ when Hawke tells him to do it. He tries his best to wait, to make Hawke proud, but entertains himself with tempting little muffled moans as he listens intently to the ambiguous sounds of clothes moving.

 

Just the feeling of Hawke’s warm hand on his shoulder is enough to make Anders’ heart race in anticipation, in wonder, in sickly-sweet love. Hawke is pressing close to him, mouth nipping at his ear again, and-  _ ah _ \- his cock brushes against Anders’ own. He must be naked. 

What he wouldn’t give to have the blindfold taken off and worship the man’s body with his gaze. What he wouldn’t give to be kept in the dark and feel him so close he never forgets his skin against his.

 

Hand grouping their lengths together, Hawke strokes them together, sharing their pleasure and their sweat. Their soft groans are voiced in unison, Hawke’s hot breath against Anders’ ear.

“Feel that, sweet? We’re so close together. So-  _ mh-  _ so good.” Hawke’s whispers are tantalising, every word soft but firm in its lust. Anders rolls his hips, Hawke’s cock sliding against his. He can’t help but be fixated on it; every movement, every thing he does, makes Hawke feel good as well. They are… equal.

“My pleasure is your pleasure,” Hawke tells him as if he were a mind reader, “and I love it. It feels so wonderful. You’re all tied up, but you’re still feeling good. Are you?”

Anders nods, only having the energy to do it minutely. Part of him wants to be free of his restraints, to cling onto Hawke as if his life depended on it, to tell him he loves him and everything he stands for.

 

Hawke starts to trail kisses down from his ear to his jawline, mouth against his stubble. The Champion’s hips move to an unseen rhythm, never taking without giving. Anders cannot see the slick slide of their pricks together, but he can feel it. It is everything, this steady build of pleasure. Everything. 

The noises that Anders make are almost constant now, and if he were in his right mind, he might call them pathetic. Almost whining around the gag. Trying to form words that might be his lover’s name, or just meaningless begging for it to never end. Hawke makes noises too, panting and moaning and holding Anders’ bound form as close to himself as possible.

If Anders wasn’t hot now, he was. Sharing body heat with the love of his life, sweat trickling down his skin and gathering under his knees. He can’t stop moving, despite being so restrained, shaking like he might never still and rutting against Hawke’s hand, Hawke’s cock. It’s so  _ good _ , so simple in the most complex way. Drowning and resurfacing in the headspace of pure submissive nothing, halfway between accepting everything Hawke gives him, and wanting to return every small bit. A game he finally knows how to play, their cocks wet and dripping and twitching for climax.

 

“G’nnh…  _ Hnh- _ ” Anders tries to form words in his blissful deliriousness, the fire in his blood rising rapidly to a crest. Muscles in his thighs tensing, he tries to be closer, closer  _ please _ to Hawke, though they’re already as tight together as can be.

“Are you close?” Hawke mumbles, and Anders can  _ feel _ his bloody smile against his neck. He licks up and down pale skin, his breathing heavy and every bit as uneven as Anders’. Both as desperate as each other.

“Mh _ mmm _ \--” Anders moans out his answer, Hawke’s hand speeding up to something fervent, something desperate. Hawke moans against his skin, and he’s close too.

“Cum with me, please, Anders, love. Don’t- don’t you  _ ahh _ dare cum before me. I want to do it together.” Hawke can barely form coherent sentences, he must be so ready to drown in pleasure. Anders is too. He wants to climax at the same time, to lose himself to the world at the same time. It’s almost embarrassingly poetic but it makes so much damn  _ sense _ . So he tries to move his hips in time to Hawke’s fast-paced hand, tries to cum with him. 

 

It’s infuriating, the few seconds just before they both orgasm. Every muscle in their bodies drawn to tension, shaking from the effort, blinding pleasure  _ so so  _ close to peaking. One last stroke of Hawke’s hand and  _ fuck _ , oh  _ fuck  _ Hawke  _ FUCK- _

 

Anders hits his climax so hard he lets out a high-pitched whine that’s half a keen, his whole body bursting into a vessel of nothing but pleasure. The sparks in his veins are a catharsis, a thick river washing away all else in himself. For a short while, as Hawke stills and cries out, spilling over his hand, the world is beautiful. At some point Anders tries to recall his name and he doesn’t know what it is. All he can think is  _ Hawke, Hawke, Hawke _ .

  
  
  


It’s horribly sticky and sweaty. Seed splattered on his abdomen, skin on fire everywhere he can think, but… oh, bliss. An afterglow like he’s never had from sex before. He feels  _ owned _ , like every inch of himself belongs to Hawke. 

 

…  _ Hawke _ .

 

“ _ Holy fuck _ .” he breathes, leaning back, yet still holding Anders by the waist - keeping him grounded. The mirth in his voice is clear. 

“Mh.” Anders says.

Hawke is about to slump forwards on top of Anders (which may flatten him if he were a less careful man), when he stops. “Oh.” he exclaims, and reaches around to tug at the ribbon knot at the space between Anders’ upper arms. It proves difficult in his post-orgasmic state, but finally it comes loose, and Hawke haphazardly pulls it free. At the first sign of freedom of movement, Anders pulls free and gingerly moves his arms about. Next, the gag, and his mouth feels empty without it. For a second, he thinks he may not be able to speak, but he knows the only word that is to be put in his mouth.

“Hawke,” he says, a rush of a breath, sweet on his tongue and rich with emotion.

“Anders,” Hawke replies. Oh, Maker, he loves him. The blindfold slips off, and Anders is glad the lighting in the room doesn’t glare.

 

Hawke is stunning, even in simplicity.

Every inch of him, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. He looks satisfied, looks  _ happy _ . All because of this damned mage.

 

“Hawke.” 

It’s all Anders can say.

 

“I’ve got you, sweet. You don’t have to do anything.” Hawke reassures him, one hand on his shoulder a gentle encouragement for him to lie back as Hawke stands up. So he does, stretching out his lightly aching limbs as Hawke undoes the spreader bar at his legs, sliding off the cuffs too. Anders notices how tentatively he sets them down on the floor; doesn’t want to make too much noise, or startle Anders. Reaching over to take an off-white cloth from the bedstand, he takes it to Anders’ body, wiping his stomach and under his knees and elbows. Then he caters to himself, before collapsing next to him, hands immediately clutching at any part of Anders he can get. Fingers around his wrist, the junction of his shoulder and neck, pulling him close.

“Please kiss me,” are the words Anders is next able to say.

“Maker,  _ yes _ .” Hawke breathes, and kisses Anders.

 

Anders’ mouth aches from being spread by the gag but Hawke kisses away the dull pain, makes everything feel better. Their legs tangle together and Anders’ hand seeks out Hawke’s, interlocking their fingers. He and Hawke are like one and the same, intertwined so closely they may shatter if they pull away. Hawke drinks in the taste of Anders’ mouth, as if it were ambrosia. Holding him close. Loving him with every touch.

 

They pull apart eventually, touching their foreheads together instead. Anders’ eyes are closed, his chest heaving with slow, sleepy breaths.

“What did I do to deserve you?” questions the mage in slight bewilderment, at peace for the first time in Andraste knows how long.

“You did nothing to deserve me. I saw you and saw everything I wanted from life.” Hawke responds gently, and Anders can’t help but believe him. He trusts Hawke, trusts where his blade swings and trusts what his words say. All of his heart he gave to Hawke, and would gladly give so much more. The world, if he may.

There’s no response to justify his sweetness, so Anders can only find further respite in holding Hawke closer, holding his hand tighter. He thought the only place that he belonged was out in the world, doing good for mages, losing sleep for the better of others. But he belongs with Hawke, too. Who has supported him, and will support him. And after being alone with nothing but a raging spirit in his mind for so long…

 

“Anders. Are you crying?” Hawke whispers, voice ridden with worry, his neck wet with Anders’ tears.

“From happiness,” Anders says, and everything he’s ever done has led up to this one moment where he can say freely, “I love you.”

A rebellion, a confession, a reinforcement all in one.

 

“I love you too, Anders.” Hawke echoes, and he feels… alive. If someone like Hawke loves him, the mess that is Anders, then he can do anything. A flicker from Justice, so far away its colour can barely be recognised. Hawke’s love gives him  _ power _ . And, behind power, arms to lie in and a body to give to.

Fractured revolutionary thoughts give way to sleep soon enough, still entangled in Hawke, his driving force, his sweet love, his…  _ his _ . He belongs to Hawke, and in turn, Hawke belongs to him. They were joined fast, and could not be separated. 

Not  _ ever _ .


End file.
